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and drag him off. Then they'll say: the lad fell into the water, they say... But what kind of fell?.. Lo-ook, he crawled into the reeds," he added, listening intently. The reeds were indeed "rustling" as they parted, as we say here. "But is it true," asked Kostya, "that Akulina the fool went mad after she was in the water?" "Since then... Look at her now! But they say she used to be a beauty. The water spirit ruined her. Must not have expected they'd pull her out so soon. So he went and ruined her, there at the bottom." (I myself met this Akulina several times. Covered in rags, terribly thin, with a face black as coal, clouded gaze and eternally bared teeth, she would stomp for hours in one place, somewhere on the road, firmly pressing her bony hands to her chest and slowly swaying from foot to foot, like a wild beast in a cage. She understood nothing, whatever anyone said to her, and only occasionally laughed convulsively.) "But they say," Kostya continued, "Akulina threw herself in the river because her lover deceived her." "That very reason." "And do you remember Vasya?" Kostya added sadly. "Which Vasya?" asked Fedya. "The one who drowned," answered Kostya, "in this very river. What a boy he was! oh, what a boy! His mother, Feklista, how she loved him, that Vasya! And it was as if she sensed it, that Feklista, that he would perish from water. Whenever Vasya would go with us, with the lads, in summer to swim in the river—she would be all atremble. Other women were fine, they'd walk past with their tubs, waddling along, but Feklista would set her tub on the ground and start calling him: 'Come back,' she'd say, 'come back, my light! oh, come back, my falcon!' And then he drowned. God only knows how. He was playing on the bank, and his mother was right there, raking hay; suddenly she hears something like bubbles rising in the water—she looks, and only Vasya's little cap is floating on the water. Well, since then Feklista hasn't been in her right mind: she'll come and lie down in that place where he drowned; she'll lie down, my brothers, and start singing a song—remember, Vasya always used to sing such a song—well, that's the one she sings, and she cries, cries, bitterly complains to God..." "Look, here comes Pavlusha," said Fedya. Pavel approached the fire with a full kettle in his hand. "What is it, lads," he began after a pause, "something's not right." "What?" asked Kostya hurriedly. "I heard Vasya's voice." Everyone shuddered. "What do you mean, what?" stammered Kostya. "I swear to God. I was just bending down to the water, when suddenly I hear someone calling me in Vasya's voice, and as if from under the water: 'Pavlusha, oh Pavlusha!' I listened; and he calls again: 'Pavlusha, come here.' I moved away. Still, I scooped up the water." "Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" said the boys, crossing themselves. "That was the water spirit calling you, Pavel," added Fedya... "And we were just talking about him, about Vasya." "Oh, that's a bad sign," said Ilyusha deliberately. "Well, never mind, let it be!" said Pavel decisively and sat down again, "you can't escape your fate." The boys grew quiet. It was clear that Pavel's words had made a deep impression on them. They began settling down before the fire, as if preparing to sleep. "What's that?" asked Kostya suddenly, raising his head. Pavel listened. "Those are sandpipers flying, whistling." "Where are they flying?" "To where, they say, there's no winter." "Is there really such a land?" "There is." "Far away?" "Far, far away, beyond the warm seas." Kostya sighed and closed his eyes. More than three hours had passed since I had joined the boys. The moon had finally risen; I didn't notice it right away: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night seemed still as magnificent as before... But already many stars that had recently stood high in the sky had descended to the dark edge of the earth; everything had completely quieted around us, as everything usually quiets only toward morning: all slept a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strong—dampness seemed to spread through it again... Short are summer nights!.. The boys' conversation died away together with the fires... Even the dogs were dozing; the horses, as far as I could make out in the faintly glimmering, weakly flowing starlight, also lay with heads lowered... Sweet oblivion came over me; it passed into drowsiness. A fresh stream ran across my face. I opened my eyes: morning was beginning. The dawn was not yet flushing anywhere, but the east was already whitening. Everything became visible, though dimly visible, around. The pale-gray sky was brightening, cooling, turning blue; the stars either blinked with weak light or disappeared; the earth grew damp, the leaves beaded with moisture, here and there living sounds and voices began to be heard, and a thin, early breeze was already wandering and fluttering over the earth. My body answered it with a light, cheerful shiver. I got up briskly and approached the boys. They were all sleeping like the dead around the smoldering fire; only Pavel raised himself halfway and looked at me intently. I nodded to him and went on my way along the smoking river. I hadn't gone two versts when already pouring all around me across the wide wet meadow, and ahead, along the greening hills, from forest to forest, and behind along the long dusty road, along the sparkling, crimsoned bushes, and along the river, shyly turning blue from under the thinning mist—first crimson, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured forth... Everything stirred, awoke, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere large drops of dew glowed like radiant diamonds; toward me, pure and clear, as if also washed by the morning coolness, came the sounds of a bell, and suddenly past me, driven by the familiar boys, rushed the rested herd... I must regretfully add that Pavel died that same year. He didn't drown: he was killed falling from a horse. A pity, he was a fine lad!

Biryuk

(From the cycle "Notes of a Hunter")

I was riding home from hunting in the evening alone, in a racing droshky. It was still about eight versts to home; my good trotting mare was running briskly along the dusty road, occasionally snorting and twitching her ears; the tired dog, as if tied, didn't lag a step behind the rear wheels. A thunderstorm was approaching. Ahead, a huge purple cloud was slowly rising from behind the forest; above me and toward me rushed long gray clouds; the willows stirred anxiously and whispered. The oppressive heat suddenly gave way to damp cold; shadows quickly thickened. I struck the horse with the reins, descended into a ravine, crossed a dry stream all overgrown with osiers, climbed the hill and entered the forest. The road wound before me between thick hazel bushes, already flooded with darkness; I moved forward with difficulty. The droshky bounced over the hard roots of century-old oaks and lindens that constantly crossed the deep longitudinal ruts—traces of cart wheels; my horse began to stumble. A strong wind suddenly roared in the heights, the trees raged, large drops of rain sharply clattered, slapped against the leaves, lightning flashed, and the storm broke. Rain poured in streams. I rode at a walk and was soon forced to stop: my horse was getting stuck, I couldn't see a thing. Somehow I sheltered myself by a wide bush. Hunched over and with my face covered, I waited patiently for the end of the bad weather, when suddenly, in a flash of lightning, a tall figure seemed to appear on the road. I began to stare intently in that direction—the same figure seemed to have grown from the earth beside my droshky. "Who's that?" asked a resonant voice. "And who are you?" "I'm the local forester." I gave my name. "Ah, I know! You're going home?" "Home. But you see what a storm..." "Yes, a storm," answered the voice. White lightning illuminated the forester from head to toe; a crackling and short clap of thunder sounded immediately after it. The rain gushed with doubled force. "It won't pass soon," the forester continued. "What to do!" "I can, if you like, lead you to my hut," he said abruptly. "Do me the favor." "Please stay seated." He approached the horse's head, took it by the bridle and pulled it from the spot. We set off. I held onto the cushion of the droshky, which rocked "like a boat at sea," and called the dog. My poor mare heavily slapped through the mud with her hooves, slipped, stumbled; the forester swayed before the shafts right and left, like a phantom. We rode for quite a while; finally my guide stopped: "Here we are home, sir," he said in a calm voice. A gate creaked, several puppies barked in unison. I raised my head and in the lightning's glow saw a small hut in the middle of a spacious yard enclosed by a wattle fence. A dim light shone from one small window. The forester led the horse to the porch and knocked on the door. "Coming, coming!" rang out a thin little voice, the patter of bare feet was heard, a bolt creaked, and a girl of about twelve, in a little shirt, belted with a string, with a lantern in her hand, appeared on the threshold. "Light the way for the gentleman," he said to her, "and I'll put your droshky under the shed." The girl glanced at me and went into the hut. I followed her. The forester's hut consisted of one room, sooty, low and empty, without sleeping platform or partitions. A torn sheepskin coat hung on the wall. On the bench lay a single-barreled gun, in the corner lay a heap of rags; two large pots stood by the stove. A splinter burned on the table, flaring and dying sadly. In the very middle of the hut hung a cradle, tied to the end of a long pole. The girl put out the lantern, sat on a tiny bench and began rocking the cradle with her right hand, adjusting the splinter with her left. I looked around—my heart ached: it's not cheerful to enter a peasant's hut at night. The child in the cradle breathed heavily and rapidly. "Are you alone here?" I asked the girl. "Alone," she uttered barely audibly. "You're the forester's daughter?" "The forester's," she whispered. The door creaked, and the forester stepped over the threshold, bowing his head. He picked up the lantern from the floor, approached the table and lit the wick. "I suppose you're not used to splinters?" he said and shook his curls. I looked at him. Rarely had I seen such a fine fellow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and splendidly built. From under his wet canvas shirt his powerful muscles bulged prominently. A black curly beard covered half of his stern and manly face; from under his grown-together broad eyebrows boldly gazed small brown eyes. He lightly placed his hands on his hips and stopped before me. I thanked him and asked his name. "They call me Foma," he answered, "and by nickname Biryuk." [Biryuk is what they call in Oryol Province a man who is solitary and morose. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "Ah, you're Biryuk?" I looked at him with doubled curiosity. From my Ermolay and from others I had often heard stories about the forester Biryuk, whom all the neighboring peasants feared like fire. According to them, there had never been such a master of his trade in the world: "He won't let you steal a bundle of brushwood; whatever the time, even at midnight, he'll swoop down like snow on your head, and don't think of resisting—strong, they say, and nimble as a devil... And there's no way to get him: not with vodka, not with money; he won't take any bait. More than once good folk have tried to get rid of him, but no—he won't let them." That's how the neighboring peasants spoke of Biryuk. "So you're Biryuk," I repeated, "I've heard about you, brother. They say you give no one any quarter." "I do my duty," he answered sullenly, "it's not right to eat the master's bread for nothing." He took an axe from his belt, sat on the floor and began chopping splinters. "Don't you have a wife?" I asked him. "No," he answered and swung the axe mightily. "She died, I suppose?" "No... yes... she died," he added and turned away. I fell silent; he raised his eyes and looked at me. "She ran off with a passing tradesman," he uttered with a cruel smile. The girl hung her head; the child woke and cried; the girl approached the cradle. "Here, give him this," said Biryuk, thrusting a stained horn into her hand. "She abandoned him too," he continued in an undertone, pointing at the child. He approached the door, stopped and turned around. "I suppose, sir," he began, "you won't eat our bread, and I have nothing except bread..." "I'm not hungry." "Well, as you wish. I would have put the samovar on for you, but I have no tea... I'll go see about your horse." He went out and slammed the door. I looked around again. The hut seemed even sadder to me than before. The bitter smell of stale smoke unpleasantly constricted my breathing. The girl didn't move from her place and didn't raise her eyes; occasionally she pushed the cradle, timidly pulling onto her shoulder the slipping shirt; her bare legs hung motionless. "What's your name?" I asked. "Ulita," she said, lowering her sad little face even more. The forester came in and sat on the bench. "The storm is passing," he remarked after a short silence, "if you wish, I'll lead you out of the forest." I stood up. Biryuk took his gun and examined the pan. "What's that for?" I asked. "There's mischief in the forest... At Kobyliy Verkh" ["Verkh" is what they call a ravine in Oryol Province. (Note by I.S. Turgenev.)] "they're cutting down a tree," he added in response to my questioning look. "Can you really hear it from here?" "I can hear it from the yard." We went out together. The rain had stopped. In the distance heavy masses of clouds still crowded, long lightning flashes occasionally flared; but overhead the dark-blue sky was already visible here and there, little stars twinkled through the thin, swiftly flying clouds. The outlines of trees, sprinkled with rain and stirred by the wind, began to emerge from the darkness. We began to listen. The forester took off his cap and bowed his head. "There... there," he suddenly said and extended his hand, "see what a night he chose." I heard nothing except the noise of leaves. Biryuk led the horse from under the shed. "But this way I might, perhaps," he added aloud, "miss him." "I'll go with you... want me to?" "All right," he answered and backed the horse up, "we'll catch him in a flash, and then I'll see you off. Let's go." We set off: Biryuk in front, I behind him. God knows how he found the road, but he stopped only occasionally, and that to listen to the sound of the axe. "See," he muttered through his teeth, "do you hear? do you hear?" "But where?" Biryuk shrugged his shoulders. We descended into a ravine, the wind died down for a moment—measured blows clearly reached my hearing. Biryuk glanced at me and nodded his head. We went further through wet ferns and nettles. A dull and prolonged rumble rang out. "Felled it..." muttered Biryuk. Meanwhile the sky continued to clear; there was a faint lightening in the forest. We finally got out of the ravine. "Wait here," the forester whispered to me, bent down and, raising his gun upward, disappeared among the bushes. I began to listen intently. Through the constant noise of the wind, faint sounds seemed to me nearby: an axe was cautiously tapping on branches, wheels creaked, a horse snorted... "Where to? Stop!" suddenly thundered Biryuk's iron voice. Another voice cried out piteously, like a hare... A struggle began. "You're ly-ying, ly-ying," repeated Biryuk, gasping, "you won't get away..." I rushed in the direction of the noise and arrived, stumbling at every step, at the scene of battle. By the felled tree, on the ground, the forester was struggling; he held the thief under him and was twisting his hands behind his back with a belt. I approached. Biryuk got up and set him on his feet. I saw a peasant, wet, in rags, with a long disheveled beard. A wretched little horse, half-covered with an angular mat, stood there along with a cart frame. The forester didn't say a word; the peasant was also silent and only shook his head. "Let him go," I whispered in Biryuk's ear, "I'll pay for the tree." Biryuk silently took the horse by the withers with his left hand; with his right he held the thief by the belt: "Well, turn around, crow!" he said sternly. "Pick up the little axe," muttered the peasant. "Why should it go to waste!" said the forester and picked up the axe. We set off. I walked behind... The rain began to drizzle again and soon poured in streams. With difficulty we reached the hut. Biryuk threw the caught horse in the middle of the yard, led the peasant into the room, loosened the knot of the belt and sat him in a corner. The girl, who had fallen asleep by the stove, jumped up and with silent fright began to look at us. I sat on the bench. "Ech, how it's pouring," remarked the forester, "we'll have to wait it out. Won't you lie down?" "Thank you." "I would have locked him in the closet, for your honor's sake," he continued, pointing at the peasant, "but you see, the bolt..." "Leave him here, don't touch him," I interrupted Biryuk. The peasant glanced at me from under his brows. I inwardly gave myself my word to free the poor man at any cost. He sat motionless on the bench. By the light of the lantern I could make out his haggard, wrinkled face, overhanging yellow eyebrows, restless eyes, thin limbs... The girl lay down on the floor right at his feet and fell asleep again. Biryuk sat by the table, leaning his head on his hands. A cricket chirped in the corner... the rain drummed on the roof and slid down the windows; we were all silent. "Foma Kuzmich," the peasant suddenly began in a dull, broken voice, "eh, Foma Kuzmich." "What do you want?" "Let me go." Biryuk didn't answer. "Let me go... from hunger... let me go." "I know you," the forester gloomily objected, "your whole settlement is like that—thief upon thief." "Let me go," repeated the peasant, "the steward... we're ruined, that's how it is... let me go!" "Ruined!.. No one should steal." "Let me go, Foma Kuzmich... don't destroy me. Yours, you know yourself, will eat you alive, that's how it is." Biryuk turned away. The peasant was twitching, as if fever was shaking him. He shook his head and breathed unevenly. "Let me go," he repeated with dismal despair, "let me go, by God, let me go! I'll pay, that's how it is, by God. By God, from hunger... the children are squealing, you know yourself. It's hard, that's how it is, it's come to that." "But still you shouldn't go stealing." "The little horse," continued the peasant, "the little horse at least, at least her... she's the only one we have... let me go!" "I said no. I'm also a man under orders: they'll make me answer. You can't be indulged either." "Let me go! Need, Foma Kuzmich, need, really that's how it is... let me go!"